<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>you are full of rage (because you are full of grief) by leviathanmouth</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867452">you are full of rage (because you are full of grief)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathanmouth/pseuds/leviathanmouth'>leviathanmouth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>something will eventually have to explode [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Death, F/F, Grief/Mourning, POV Second Person, and the ring just slips back on, bc bitch u aren't getting out that easily, removing a red lantern's ring kills them but she is. immortal, so i'm imagining for her it's just extremely painful and unpleasant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:21:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathanmouth/pseuds/leviathanmouth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you are your anger, and nothing else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Female Character/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>something will eventually have to explode [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you are full of rage (because you are full of grief)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a lantern fic written by someone who's never read any dc comic ever.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b></b> <strong>i.</strong> it is two days after your wife’s funeral when the ring comes to you. you are visiting her grave again, the earth still freshly turned and the condolence flowers not yet wilted. something deep inside you twists violently, like a caged beast that wants to be free. its name is anger. the bouquet of flowers you brought are on fire. you curse, and drop them to the ground, stamping out the flames. </p><p>the ring comes crashing to the earth right in front of you. it sits in the ruins of your wife’s headstone and the soft, smoking soil. the chunk of grey stone at your feet reads <em> rage, rage </em>. </p><p><em> (amber ackerman<br/>
</em> <em>beloved wife, sister, and daughter<br/>
</em> <em>july 14 1980 - january 8 2020</em><br/>
<em>do not go gently into that good night<br/>
</em> <em>rage, rage against the dying of the light.)</em></p><p>it glows red, and tells you things. it tells you that your anger is right.  it tells you that you can kill the man who killed your wife. it tells you that it can help with that. </p><p>you pick it up, and slip it on your middle finger. it’s a perfect fit.</p><p><b></b> <strong>ii.</strong> your name is arson, and you’ve always been angry, but this is something else. it’s a physical thing now, one that sits low and heavy behind your ribs, and on your finger. all your life, you’ve been rage-filled and trembling with the weight of it. </p><p>there are others like you, with red rings. you know this instinctively, like the way you know how to make swords out thin air </p><p>
  <em> (you knew a guy who could do that once, but he’s at the bottom of an ocean now, so it’s not like you can call for pointers. and that ended . . . messily, to say the least. besides, you think you prefer the weight of metal in your hands.) </em>
</p><p>and the way you know that the anger the ring brings with it drives them to turn into rabid attack dogs, unable to do anything but lash out without rhyme or reason. you think the reason you aren’t like this is because you’ve always been this angry. all your life it’s been sitting beneath your skin, an unseen wound, festering in its hatred. the ring is simply providing you a conduit beyond your own natural abilities. </p><p>the only difference between now and then, and you and them, is that your rage is a driving thing now, instead of an incapacitating one. </p><p><b>iii.</b> your blood is red now. you’re in a pool of it on the floor of your latest safehouse. it smells like something rotten, and has clots like sour milk in it.</p><p>spoiled. </p><p>you pick yourself up off the floor, black spots flickering across your vision. something behind your eyes pulses angrily. on your finger the ring is glowing fiercely, and hot to the touch. it’s angry. you are, too. sometimes this feels more like an unhealthy relationship than anything else. </p><p>trying to take the ring off was stupid, you know that now. but you don’t know if you really like the path you’re headed down. its twisting alleyways are dark, and light at the end is malevolent red. it seems like the only way out is death, and you can’t even do that. </p><p>you think of a line from a book of poetry amber liked. you had pretended to hate it, hate the concept of poetry itself, but you both saw the copy you bought yourself and kept hidden in the nightstand on your side of the bed. you both knew what a liar you are, at heart. you didn’t like the poetry, just like how you don’t like the anger.</p><p>
  <em> (we are all going forward. none of us are going back.) </em>
</p><p><b>iv</b>. here’s the thing: you don’t want to be evil. but you’re—god you’re just so <em> angry </em>. </p><p>
  <em> (here’s another thing: no one else but you knows this.) </em>
</p><p>there is a wound deep inside, perpetually bleeding, always festering. it’s been there since you were a child. it gapes inside you like a black yawning pit, hollowing out your body. there’s no room for organs with all your pain. </p><p>you are what your trauma made you.</p><p><b></b> <strong>v.</strong> there are five stages of grief, and you’ve been stuck in the second since you woke up from a bullet in your head to your wife dead on the floor. you are grief, and you are anger, and that’s it. </p><p>the grief is secondary, wrapped up in your hatred, but it’s there in everything you do. every motion, every explosion, every act of destruction, is an act of mourning. </p><p>she wouldn’t want this, you know, but</p><p>
  <em> (and that’s the point of all this) </em>
</p><p>she’s not here right now. you’re the one left behind, the one that has to make something of your ashes. you’re not her responsibility anymore.</p><p>no matter how much you say it’s for her, it’s always been about you.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>